Month: September 2012

I got some food last night and perused the menu.  None of it really caught my eye until I saw a sandwich with Italian beef, pepperoni, peppers and other type stuff called the Guido.  So I ordered it.  I then realized how socially unacceptable that would be for any other race than whitey.  “Oh, I’ll have the fwied wice.  Why is it spelled like that?  Oh, I get it!  Racism jokes all around!”  That would be horribly unacceptable.  Then again, after Jersey Shore, I think Italians have had enough shame and abuse for at least a decade so I guess a sandwich is nothing.

Then I remembered once at an Irish bar, I ordered a round of Irish car bombs.  After ten minutes, the very non-Irish bartender came back and said, “You can’t order those, it’s offensive.”  Me: “To whom?  I’m part Irish (Scot-Irish, but he didn’t know the details).”  I then was told to change my order, or I would be served and have to leave.  So I ordered five and took my sweet time on the last one.  Damned white people.  I can say that, I’m something like 1/16th or 1/32nd Native American.

There is a fun chain of insults depending upon where you’re from.  Big cities call smaller cities white trash, smaller cities call rural areas rednecks, rural boys call city boys pussies.  Repeat.  I went to a bachelor party last weekend and well, my group managed to outdo any group there, whether rural, urban or in between.

My car had to stop twice in the one hour trip due to pre-gaming before the trip started, so we weren’t exactly waiting on the party to begin – we rather kicked the door down two hours before the snacks were set out and tapped the keg before the hosts got out of the shower.  This is a rather long-standing tradition with my high school crew.  I remember cruising around looking for a party (place to drink), then showing up first, leaving last and generally ruining everyone else’s good time.  Ah, memories.

We got to the dog track where such wisdom was shared like, “Bet on the dog that takes a shit.  It’s lighter” and “I pick the ones named after beer and cigarettes first.”  Nice.  Two guys got into a rather heated argument over a wife that used to date another one in the crew in front of a whole bar.  One guy may have passed out in the elevator (the main floor of the casino was one floor away from our rooms).

My favorite was the true party animal (not me, sadly) who shut down the bar and found some Jack in the room.  With little sleep (on a floor), he proceeded to rise like the undead and stumble to the breakfast buffet.  A maid asked, “Are you done in there?”  “Kiss my ass, lady!” he grumbled.  I like the insult combined with the proper title of lady.  Then I heard him yell at an older couple, “What are you looking at, the damn roof?”  They were truly terrified.

Of course, the final joke was on me, as hungover, I had to sit bitch between two guys and have Marlboro Reds blown in my face the whole way back.  I would have puked, but I was too constricted for the function of vomiting.  Remind me never to drink Jager on an empty stomach.

This is single-handedly the dumbest question I’ve ever been asked since starting stand-up.  I’ve also been asked this question several times for some reason recently.  Let’s break down why it’s so stupid.

First off, does anyone else get this question?  Go to a bakery – “Can you bake?”  “No, I burn the shit out of everything.  I actually caught fire to my last three stores.  You should probably run for your life before it happens again.”  So the answer should be yes, I am hilarious.  Then I sound like a pretentious ass, even though the question was tossed to me.  I didn’t just offer it up.  “I’m very funny.  What do you think about that?”

The only thing worse than the above question is when you say yes, then usually someone says, “Tell me a joke then” or “Prove it.”  This is where I punch them in the nuts and say see?  I’m the best.  Actually, I always say to that fun follow up, I’m a professional.  Give me $100 and I’ll show you I’m funny.  If not, you’ll never know what you missed.  (No one ever pays, but the questions stop, and that’s what’s important)

At this point, my Georgia trip was the worst from a Buckeye since Sherman paid a visit, so I didn’t really give two shits about the show, but damnit, I am a comedian.  I don’t know what that means…  I got on and laid it out there for 30 minutes.  It went, surprisingly, very well.  The headliner also did a fine job and all were pleased.  Then something strange happened.  There was one more treat for everyone.

Post-show, it turned to music and the star of the night was Andy D.  I looked into the crowd earlier and there was an overweight gentleman with a stache, mullet and sleeveless jean jacket.  He also donned a white fanny pack, jams, and high tops.  Of course, he was shirtless under the jean jacket/vest.  He then threw it down.  I can’t do it justice, so here’s his video.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-hukwN47gvA  Now that song will never, ever, leave your head.  Ever.

The headliner and I set up shop to sell some shirts.  After the second show started, we looked at each other with that “fuck it” look and we packed up two minutes later.  Well, that was the show.  Oh, and in case you didn’t get enough, here’s another.  This SOB is catchy, I’ll give him that.  Kind of like VD.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CW7L8fPAyqo&feature=relmfu

After the hotel debacle, I finally was able to relax and focus on the show.  Of course, we had to eat first and hadn’t had much luck.  Turns out all that was off our exit was a gut wagon, two gas stations and yes, a Western Sizzlin.

I was actually impressed, between this and the Village Inn pizza I saw earlier, this trip was the land of lost restaurants.  If only Burger Chef would pop up, my life would be complete.  I ate the buffet and felt the years dropping off my life as brown gravy and watered down blue cheese dressing attacked my swollen arteries.  Nothing like a light meal before showtime.

I drove over to the show and walked in.  I was greeted with a message – “Groupon didn’t run the ad.  It’s probably going to be light tonight.”  Ah, more good news.  The club was pretty cool – it was a hipster joint, complete with a working NES in the corner and PBR on tap.  I just traveled to the deep South to wind up in a hipster bar?  This is ironic…just like a hipster!  WHOA!  In all seriousness, it was truly an eclectic joint.  I talked to a gay guy wearing dress shoes with no socks, a tank top (self cut) and micro shorts who told me Columbus, Ohio had a great gay scene.  Good to know.  I also conversed with a full blown cowboy type, complete with cowboy hat, boots, and the amazing ability to one-up every fucking thing I said.  I won’t bore you, but he had been to better places than me, earned more cash (that one’s not hard to believe), seen crazier things (now I know he’s full of shit) and met more interesting people.  Well, that one’s true also.  You’re talking to me and I’m talking to you.  You win.

I called my contact at the show again, and of course, no answer.  I drove to the club, it was closed.  Now I am righteously pissed off.  I called my booker, who is a solid dude, and after about 30 more minutes, another hotel was found.  Then my anger really took off.

I walked into hotel B and the lady said, “We don’t have no rooms.”  That’s fine, I have a reservation.  “Give me the name and your credit card.”  Name given…but you have a card on file.  You’ll charge mine if I give it to you.  “Sir, I need the card.”  Don’t you have one on file?  “Yes, but I need yours.”  No you don’t.  Not if you have one right there, in the computer.  “Sir, without giving me a card, I have to give your room reservation away.”  At this point, I really blew a gasket.  I announced a very loud “Motherfucker!” and stormed out.  After a series of messages back and forth, the club agreed to pay me for the room if I used my own funds.  Back into the hotel…

I’ll use my card, I just need a receipt.  “Sir, you’ll get your receipt no problem.  It will print in the morning.”  I need it now.  I have to leave tomorrow and drive 11 hours and the club is closed.  “Sir, they only print after midnight.”  So, you’re telling me you have NO ABILITY WHATSOEVER TO PRINT A RECEIPT?!  “Yes, sir.  I could print you a blank piece of paper if you want that.”  Then she cocked her head to the side and smirked.  I know what you’re doing…  At this point I said nothing and stared into her dead eyes.  I began breathing through my flared out nostrils like a bull about to charge.  I suddenly wanted to drag her across the counter and do very violent things to this person, who just ten minutes ago was a total stranger to me.

I finally hit a weird calm moment where if she said one more thing, I was going to blow.  “Well, ma’am.  How about you just tell me the total.  I’m sure that’s possible, right?”  She gave me the total, then printed up a paper for me to sign.  The total was right on it.  I looked at her and said, “I’ll be damned.  There’s the total.  On paper.”  She looked at me with hate, but I think she knew she had poked the bear enough.

Later on that night, a cowboy at the show was talking to me while I was enjoying a nice Montecristo.  “Can I ask you a question?”  Sure.  “How come every comedian I meet seems pissed off all the time?”  That was the first time I laughed all night.  Well, my rural friend, let me tell you a story…  As a side note, that is the funniest question that has ever been asked to me related to comedy.  Well done, Tex.